Those who fight
by ohmikegod
Summary: Piers copes with still being alive. Chris helps him with it. Meanwhile, bio-terrorism gives no rest to the human civilization- it's all good, though. Piers doesn't plan to give bio-terrorism any rest, either. / ChrisxPiers, slow build. Different character appearances through the story.
1. Prologue

**Those who fight**

_Prologue_

* * *

The first thing he feels is how smooth the surface he's laying on is. It's strange. Needless to say, the BSAA didn't provide their agents with the best arrangements while they were in training on base, and while on mission, you didn't have the luxury to complain on where you took a nap. Then, there was how he researched Chris' whereabouts for months until he found him in that shithole, going from one crappy motel to another, and afterward, the whole C-Virus predicament.

_I should ask for holidays more often _isn't what comes to his mind first, but he concentrates on that thought intently, grasping at it for dear life. He dreads the moment he'll have to open an eye. He can feel panic slowly coursing in his body, flowing through his veins like fire, revealing its ugly head from a place he didn't know existed.

He had died.

Or so, he'd hoped he did. Apparently, life isn't inclined to grant such a simple wish to an horrible, mutating monster.

He opens his bad eye first- from which he still has perfect vision of, thankfully. The room is obnoxiously clear; bright white neon lights hang above his head and temporarily blind him, making his body tense even more in response. He can feel tubes firmly attached to him and machines whirring in the background. He fears what might lie below the covers; his head seems normal enough, after further inspection from his left hand (he pointedly avoids moving his right arm). He has a couple of heavy scars crossing over his skin, an intricate pattern of lines intertwining themselves over his cheek and jaw as proof of what he'd endured. His forehead also bears a couple of marks of war, remnants of the infection he'd willingly put himself through.

He lets his arm drop back on the covers and takes a couple of minutes to calm down and breathe. His throat hurts, parched and sore. The small room he's into is unnerving enough, with its blinding light and stark white walls, but the sound of activity outside the door sets his mind at ease. Patients, doctors and nurses, conversing through the corridors, their footsteps coming and going, leave him with a brief moment of quietness and solitude. He'd fought for these people and more, and somehow, his sacrifice hadn't been for nothing. Everything seemed normal enough. He could only hope that Jake's blood had served some purpose in the end.

His sacrifice hadn't been for nothing. He's glad.

There are no clocks in the room. He doesn't know how long it takes him to finally move his good hand to check his other arm. When he goes to get a feel at his bicep- that hopefully won't be a heap of mutated muscles and skin- he only grabs cloth. He tries again, but he merely brushes soft fabric. Nothing consistent.

Panic surges again and he sits in a jolt.

His arm is gone.

His eyes widen. He can still feel his arm there, but... it's not. It really isn't. There's only his shoulder and empty space. What should normally be coming out of the hospital garb _isn't_. He's not sure he should feel relief or anguish over that fact. His heart races and conflicting emotions clash in his head, making him grip tightly the hospital sheets with his one and only hand. Strange enough, he still feels as though he can still move it. He can still feel his right hand's fingers wiggling, but they're not there. They're a ghost, taunting with false sensations. The extreme pain caused by his arm being ripped off in the underwater facility by a B.O.W makes him wince internally, remembering how he'd had to keep moving despite the injury, blood spluttering everywhere from the open wound. That son of a bitch had gotten him right. And after, injecting himself with the virus to be able to help Chris out of there...

Then again, if there would've been a mutated limb in its place, he's not sure he would've been able to take it. He knows it was impossible to wish for his healthy arm back, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from hoping that maybe-

"Mr. Nivans!"

He hadn't heard the door open. A nurse, with short blond hair and a regular work outfit smiles at him , swiftly moving closer to the bed. She helps him sit up despite his protests, comfortably arranging his pillows behind his back. The name on her tag reads _Dana J_.

"Well sir, how do you feel?" she asks, sitting on the chair next to his bed.

He sighs, watching her right in the eye. He wonders if his scars irk her. He can't see the extent of it, but he guesses he must be permanently disfigured. "I don't know. What's going on here? Where am I, exactly?"

He almost wants to ask _how did I get here_, but he figures it'd be a pointless question. She probably wouldn't know.

"San Francisco. Saint Francis Memorial? Does that ring a bell?" she asks, her smile still firmly in place.

He shakes his head. He's not from around here and never has been in San Francisco before in his life.

Silence quickly takes over. He has so much to ask, so many questions on his lips, but he doesn't know how to voice them- doesn't know if she'll understand his rubbish. He stares at her, unable to speak, until he sighs again and lets his eyes drift closed. He'd like to be alone for a while. To think about things. It couldn't be that easy. Something had to be wrong, somehow. There had to be something inside of him, crawling under his flesh, waiting for its moment to strike. He briefly wonders why he's not restrained- he even feels like requesting it. Just to be safe.

His gloom quite evident, the nurse starts for the door, at which she turns around before opening. He probably would've hit on her, given different circumstances; she was pretty enough.

"You've been asleep for a long time, you know. In a coma," she says, her expression dimming just a bit. "Your vitals stabilized a couple of weeks ago, but I'll let the doctor do all the explaining. I've got a call to make."

He chances a glance at her. He wonders if that means she has to notify the doctors the bio-hazard patient has finally awoken. If that means he still has trace of the C-Virus in his system.

He frowns. "A call? Is there something I should be aware of?" His tone is much more clipped than he would've liked it to be, but what the hell.

She's unfazed by his rude demeanor, to say the least. She simply replies, "Don't worry sir, we've only all been notified to make a call to Captain Redfield once you would wake up. I'll also be calling your parents."

His expression softens. Right. "Thanks... Dana, right?"

She nods and waves him off. "No problem, Mr. Nivans. I'll bring you dinner once I'm done with this."

With a last tug of her lips, she turns on her heels and goes out the door, leaving him alone in the quiet room yet again. The steady beeps of the cardiac monitor are his only company. Somehow, food doesn't even seem that appealing. All he can see is that monster ripping his arm off, over and over again in his head, like a bad movie with surround sound and a giant screen. He absently touches the stump he's been granted in place of a mutated limb. He feels nauseous.

After a moment, he snorts at it all. He has to stop the pity party right the fuck here. His father will kick his ass if he sees him like this.

He's never been straddled to an hospital bed before, but he's alive, right? He's always been the lucky type. His mother had always taught him to look at the bright side of things. He's strong. A lost arm is nothing for a Nivans. And Chris... Well, that's something he'd rather skip altogether, but it'll come bite him in the ass, eventually. When he'd looked at him through the pod's window, he'd been certain it'd be the last time he'd see him. He can remember the sheer panic on Chris' face as he'd been banging on the metallic door from the other side. He feels a pang of guilt for putting Chris through another death on his squad, even though it had been the right thing to do at the moment. He couldn't have risked for something to happen to his Captain. Chris wasn't expendable.

Turning his head to the side a bit, he catches sight of a scarf resting on the night stand next to his bed. His plaid scarf. He takes it, slowly raising it in front of him, noticing how someone had tried to wash away the blood stains on it. Splatters could still be seen on the dark fabric, if you watched closely enough. His heart tugs a bit at that, but he decides to put it around his neck, nevertheless. He always loved that scarf. He then notices a BSAA emblem resting on the stand, which had apparently been hidden below it. He makes a grab for it- it's also been washed, but still bloodied. Someone had tried to make it all better, and yet, notwithstanding the effort, it would stay stained forever.

He plays with it for a long time with his single hand.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Chapter lengths should range from 3000 to 6000 words. I'm a slow writer, but chapters should be updated weekly, two weeks **at most **if everything goes according to plan (I'll update on the situation if anything comes up). College keeps me from doing whatever the hell I want :)

Hope you enjoy!

-mike

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

It takes about two weeks before he can manage it to the hospital. The day is gray and it's raining hard, streets assaulted by torrents of droplets mercilessly smashing themselves on its concrete. It's been a long flight and he's tired from the jet lag. Still, he's out of the taxi in a flash, breezing through the harsh weather and into the building, not even minding the receptionist at the entrance. He's already been here.

It feels as though he's late, but he's not sure for what. Maybe he's just eager. All he knows is that he hasn't been able to get a wink of sleep on the plane because he's been high strung for the past hours.

He'd tried to make it earlier. Being in Europe on a mission hadn't helped his case, though. When news of Piers waking up had reached his ears from HQ, he'd requested a temporary leave. Unfortunately, the case was getting hot; tracking the biggest bio-weapon dealer in London was no menial task, and he'd been so close to catch the slippery bastard, too. Thing is, he's now needed somewhere else. Chris Redfield is a man of duty, but he's also a man of priorities. Besides, Jill would be able to handle it- the guy is trapped, there's no way she wouldn't get her hand on him. He doesn't mind not getting credit for catching the fucker, either. He's done his part, and that's sufficient for him. HQ was happy to let him out of the loop, as long as the mission got done, so here he is, standing dumbly in front of door 406, Emergency Department of the Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.

He hesitates at the handle. Should he knock? Maybe Piers is dozing off. It's a bit before noon, but he's still in recovery. He probably sleeps a lot.

Chris rakes his knuckles on the hardwood door, and sure enough, a "Come in!" resounds from the other side. He lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. As if he'd expected someone else to be in the room, or no one being there at all.

He pushes the door open. A familiar, yet very different face looks up at him from the hospital bed, surprised at first but quickly recovering with a small smile. He's proudly wearing his trademark scarf. Chris makes out the scars slithering on his features, impudently tarnishing the young skin like nobody's business. The eye is no small matter, either; it looks like a pearl, white and milky, and completely surreal. It greatly contrasts with his other shiny, hazel iris. It's strange, but nothing that throws him off.

He makes a conscious effort of showing no sign he's noticed the changed traits; it's still Piers. Battered and beaten to a pulp, but it's Piers. Chris can only be glad. People coming back from the dead is something he's quite used to (surprisingly enough), but this time, his heart pumps a bit faster and spreads warmth in his body- it doesn't send a chill down his spine.

"Hey, kid."

"Captain."

Chris makes his way into the room as silently as his steel-capped boots let him and goes to sit on the chair next to the bed. That's when he realizes he doesn't know what to say- Piers is alive and well, but he's dumbfounded. He'd rushed to the hospital to see Piers, but in the daze of it all, he hadn't even taken a second to think. There's simply too much to address all at once.

The only thing he manages is, "What'd the doctors say?"

He knows he's to the point, but he has to know. Chris hadn't been informed of his condition while he'd been on mission. He wants to know if his friend will be alright. If he's just that lucky, in the end.

"Well," Piers frowns a bit, clearly trying to remember all the details, "apparently, the C-Virus saved me. That's what they came up with, anyway, there's nothing they're sure of. I'm still infected, but the virus is dormant. They say it kept me alive when the facility collapsed and then for a couple of days in the ocean, where they found me in the wreckage. It didn't want its host to die, is what they said."

"Dormant? As in..?"

"Inactive. They don't know if it'll wake up in a week or a month. Maybe never."

It seems like a stupid question to be asking now, but he feels like he has to. "How you holding up?"

"I'm good. Everyone has ups and downs."

Chris watches him, incredulous. Piers didn't even bat an eyelash. "They had to surgically remove your mutated arm, Piers. And your face, they-"

Anger suddenly flares on Piers' face. His voice booms in the room, high and mighty, and that's not a tone Chris has ever seen him use with him. "Don't you think I know that?! What the hell do you want me to do about it? Wail in my bed all day?"

Chris is stunned for a second. Piers gazes away to study the sheets. He's gripping them with an iron fist. "I'm sorry, Captain," he says in almost a whisper.

Chris hadn't expected the outburst, but he shouldn't be too surprised, considering. "It's alright. And don't call me that, you're not under my command right now. No one is, anyway."

"What?" Piers' expression goes stone cold. "Don't tell me you resigned."

He'd forgotten how much of a touchy subject that was. "Don't worry, nothing of the sort. I decided I'd work without a unit for a while. Do some recon and such. It's a nice change. Jill says hi, by the way."

"You guys were on a mission?"

"Yeah, we were tracking a bio-weapon dealer in Europe. Jill will take care of the rest."

"Don't tell me you left to come check on me."

"It's almost done, she'll bust him," Chris says, waving him off. What's the deal, anyway?

"Captain, with all due-"

"I told you to stop call-"

"-respect, leaving her alone on such an impo-"

"-ing me that. She could kick my ass if she wanted. I'm not worried-"

"-rtant mission was irresponsible. Coming to see me was-"

"-she'll break his legs and bring him to jail."

"Fine."

They stare at each other for a while, challenging. Piers has always been somewhat hot-headed, deep down inside, but seeing him argue like that is a rare sight. And talking over Chris, no less. He doesn't mind; anything to get Piers' thoughts off his condition. He needs it. Besides, they're equals now, so if he wants to tell him to fuck off, he's entitled to.

Not that Chris wouldn't punch him for it, of course.

"She said she'll come see you once she gets back in America, too," Chris says finally. "Sorry it took so long for me to show up."

"Don't sweat it," Piers says, shadow of a grin back in place. "My folks came to visit, stayed a couple of days. My mom wouldn't leave, I told her I'd come spend a few days at home soon so she'd stop crushing me in her arms. I had plenty to occupy myself."

"Going back to New York once they discharge you?"

Piers' face darkens at that. He's scowling and his lips are tight. Chris is as clueless as a box of rocks on what he's said to set him off.

"Yeah, about that..." Piers says, looking out the window opposite Chris. It's still raining. "I can't live wherever I want anymore. I have to be watched, in case something... happens."

"In case the C-Virus takes over?"

Piers slowly nods. It makes Chris' stomach churn.

"Who's gonna keep an eye on you?" he asks.

"I don't really know. They said something about taking me back to HQ, but I bet they'd rather I be dead. It'd save them the hassle," Piers says. Bitterness practically seeps out of his mouth along with his words.

Chris groans. They'll probably find every reason to quarantine him for as long as possible into one of these standard issue rooms for agents on site. He can't guess what they'll try to do with him, since such a situation has never arisen before, but it couldn't be good. Chris isn't stupid and neither is Piers. They both know he represents a possible future threat; the BSAA has no choice but to act on it, even though they'll try to be subtle. It's the sensible thing to do. They can't let a man infected with the C-Virus walk freely around the globe. Hell, Piers would've been the first to approve of such a measure, if he hadn't been the infected one. Chris is no exception as well.

He won't let them toy with Piers, though. Not while he's still breathing. He owes him that much, if nothing else. Piers is a brave young man who put everything he had on the line for the greater good, along with saving his Captain. Caging him inside the BSAA HQ, under constant surveillance for God knows how long, is no way to treat him. It's no way to treat a hero.

Problem is, he's not sure the BSAA is above quietly putting down an infected man to get things done with. That's what scares him the most, but he chooses not to voice his concerns. He's pretty sure Piers isn't blind to that fact, anyway.

"Tell you what," Chris says, slapping his thighs and getting on his feet. "I'll be the one to watch out for you."

This makes Piers' gaze snap away from the window. He watches Chris, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. To be fair, Chris kind of feels the same way, too.

"You heard me, kid. You'll come live with me in my flat, in DC. I mean, unless you want to-"

"No, that's fine. Just for a while." Chris can see relief washing over his face. "But... are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose."

"It's no trouble, really. I got a spare room, and as long as you don't make a mess out of my apartment with your dirty socks, everything will be peachy."

He can see Piers struggling to argue- probably about how he could hulk out in Chris' flat at any given moment. After all, there's nothing they can be sure of with the C-Virus. Chris doesn't want to think about it yet; one thing at a time. Getting Piers discharged and safe is his top priority. What comes after will come in due time, but right now, he knows Piers isn't really safe from anything. Chris can only trust himself to keep him in one piece.

Chris warily eyes the emblem on the nightstand. He'd brought it first thing when they'd found Piers' body, trying to wash away the blood beforehand, without much success. He'd thought it was fitting. "I'll check with the doctors if I can get you out of here tomorrow. Then, I'll call HQ and tell them to suck it up. How does that sound?"

He still looks unsure about the whole thing, but he nods. "Thanks."

"No problem. We'll go and get some steak before taking our flight, yeah?"

Piers lets out a disbelieving chuckle.

* * *

It's noon again when Chris comes to fetch him. The sun is shining outside, despite a crisp November cold.

Piers is in the lobby, dressed in BSAA casual clothes and coat, and all he can think about is what awaits him ahead. What's he going to become? He can't be an agent anymore. Well, he can do a desk job, but he guesses he probably won't see much action anymore. With a missing arm, his use on terrain is drastically diminished. He can't even handle a rifle; big calibers are out of reach. Ironic, considering being a good shot was his most valuable asset. He's always fought for weaker people, but now that he's one of them, he wonders just how they do it. He was born to be in the center of crisis. He has trouble accepting the condition that has been forced on him.

That being said, he probably isn't trusted anymore anyway, what with the whole C-Virus ordeal. Chris did him a big favor by taking him in- he's not sure he would've been able to be under surveillance at HQ without having a breakdown. He didn't want to think about what they had in store for him. He's a menace, after all. He doesn't know what Chris did to make them agree on their arrangement, but he guesses it comes with being one of the founding members of the organization, along with a lot of pulled strings. He doesn't know how to thank him. Words aren't worth much these days, it seems.

And then, Chris barges through the hospital's front doors and waves him over with a broad smile. He claps him on the shoulder and practically manhandles him inside the taxi. As promised, they go eat steak.

The restaurant isn't anything fancy or anything, but fuck, Piers missed eating food that tasted something. Food at the hospital had been invariably bland. The steak here, though, is pretty damn good by his standards. Chris eats his well-done; it makes him scrunch his nose in disdain. What's fun in eating steak when it's as tough as rubber? When Piers voices as much, they even bicker about it for a while. He finds that Chris has a sense of humor hidden under the serious looks, which surprises him.

That's when he realizes he knows nothing about the man. He's known Chris for a couple of years, but during all these, he's never gotten close to personally_ knowing_ him. He knows the headlines about him- Raccoon city and the such- but nothing trivial or remotely personal. They were colleagues, after all, and Chris has always been his superior. They've always kept a respectful distance.

Right now, in a small restaurant in downtown San Francisco, it doesn't seem to matter that much anymore. Piers isn't sure if it's because Chris pities him for his situation, or if it's because the chain-of-command has been broken (only temporarily, he hopes), but he can't bring himself to care. It feels good to have somebody to talk to, without any seriousness, after being in a coma for almost five months.

They catch their flight at two o'clock. It takes forever to get on the plane, what with the security checks and whatnot, but it's uneventful- there's a crappy movie playing, and except for a little boy who cries on the whole way, nothing much happens. The horrific screeches and sobs don't stop Chris from dozing off for an hour or two, making Piers wish he was also such an heavy sleeper. He's instead stuck with _Wrath of the Titans_ and _The Dictator_. He almost feels like crying, himself.

It's eleven when they arrive in DC; the moon is hung up in the sky, but it's a starless night. Chris' sister, a petite brunette sporting a ponytail and a bright red coat, is waiting for them at the airport. That's something Chris had forgotten mentioning. When she gets to them, huge grin showing pearl white teeth, she lunges at Chris and hugs him with force. Chris hugs back, albeit a bit more awkwardly, but it makes Piers smile. They're obviously close. Piers, being a single child, has longed at different moments in his life for a sibling of his own, but it's obviously too late, now. He's been cuddled a lot when he was younger, getting all the loving from his parents, except he finds he wouldn't have minded sharing if that would've meant getting a sis or a bro.

Chris' sister ultimately turns to him after letting go of Chris and admonishing him for not spending enough time with her. It shouldn't surprise him, but the resemblance between the two is striking. She's much tinier than Chris- they mostly share the same features, though. Even their eyes have the same dark, blueish hue. Piers can feel the strength practically radiating from her, much like Chris, and he figures it must be a family thing. Redfields have something going on about them, from what he's gathered.

"Hi, I'm Claire," she says, extending her hand for him to shake. He does. "You must be Piers, right?"

"Piers Nivans. Happy to meet you, Miss," he says and nods, and can't help but be uncomfortable. Showing his dismantled face to new people, ever since he's woken up, has unnerved him. His missing arm makes him feel like a freak show.

"Please, don't be so formal. I'm just a regular girl, alright?" She takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes, looking him right in the eye. He holds the scrutiny without flinching.

The sincere look she gives hints that she knows much more than she's letting on. Chris probably briefed her on the one-armed man he's bringing from San Francisco. Piers does appreciate the sympathy, even if he's just met her.

"Don't believe a word she says. She can take down a grown man in five seconds flat," Chris pipes up, rolling his eyes at her. "I would know, I was there."

"Chris!"

"Okay kids," Chris says, clapping his hands and starting towards the airport's exit, "time to head home. And no funny business with my sis, Piers, or I'll end you."

Claire sputters at that, but follows. Piers can see her drilling a glare behind her brother's back. "Chris, I swear to God..."

Chris had said it with a laugh, but really, the serious undertone hasn't gone on deaf ears.

The car ride is fairly short- it turns out Chris' flat is relatively close to the airport. Chris invites Claire over for coffee once they get in front of the building, to which she readily agrees and goes to park the car. It's awfully...

Domestic. Strangely so, even.

"So I was thinking," Claire says, opening Chris' door like it's her own house, "we could go shopping tomorrow. I mean, Piers, you can't stay in these ugly clothes forever, right?"

"What's wrong with his clothes? It's standard BSAA outfit," Chris says, a scowl lining his forehead.

"Yeah, I don't want him to end up like you," she says, ignoring her brother while neatly placing her coat on the hanger near the entrance.

He fakes affront. "Feeling sassy tonight, huh?"

"I'd like to," Piers puts in, because it's the truth. He'd love to wear something a bit more comfortable than BSAA standards, if he's to be on leave for an undetermined period of time.

"Great! I also need to check for shoes and stuff. You can tag along if you want," she says as she turns to Chris, expectations clear on her face. In spite of their bickering, it shows that she appreciates every second spent with Chris.

It takes a moment for Chris to answer. He eyes her cautiously, but finally caves in. "Okay. But don't count on me to be helpful."

"Wouldn't have expected any less," she says, but delight is clear in her tone.

As she ushers them into the kitchen for her promised coffee, Piers hopes she's not as bad as his ex when it comes to shopping. Otherwise, tomorrow might be a very long day.


End file.
